


the difference between whiskey and you

by winteryknights (BlackcatNamedlucky)



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Epistolary, Flashbacks, ggcu, i legitimately have no idea what other tags would apply for this work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackcatNamedlucky/pseuds/winteryknights
Summary: James McGraw has spent the past 20 years trying to put his life back together after it was mercilessly torn apart, moving thousands of miles from his homeland to start over only to find himself in a place that seems determined to remind him of his past. But, then again, maybe these things truly do happen for a reason.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw & John Silver, Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Miranda Barlow & Captain Flint | James McGraw
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. Prologue: 10.July.1995

**Author's Note:**

> I got this fic idea a couple of months ago and finally decided to follow through on it! I can't promise a schedule for updates but I'll try for at least once a month. I hope you enjoy it!

Thomas,  
When last I wrote to you, it felt like everything was spinning out of control, but things have settled now. I’ve gotten a job in the states, a professor. I don’t think any of us could have ever seen that coming.  
Miranda moved with me. She’s still a schoolteacher. We’ve been renting a flat together. There’s a lake out here so big you could almost believe it to be the sea if only the air smelt of salt.  
I still love you, with everything I have. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop. And, God, I miss you. But I know that you would want me to be happy, so I’m trying. I really am. I’ll let you know how it goes.  
Forever yours,  
James


	2. don't look twice at that bottle

James is shaken from his focus by the sound of his phone buzzing frantically somewhere under the mess on his desk. He shakes his head to clear it and pushes through the papers to look for the device, seeing Miranda’s name, bold and bright, on the screen.

He accepts the call, only to be greeted by, _“James I swear to God if you don’t answer the phone- oh!”_

“Curious how you were going to end that, Miranda,” he says, starting to organize the mess of papers on his desk and packing them away, along with the laptop that was reminding him it was low on battery and needed to be plugged in.

_“Probably going to threaten to kill you in your sleep, if you ever got back.”_

James pulls the phone away from his ear and checks the time, 8:45. “It’s not that late,” he protests, wedging his phone between his shoulder and ear to pick up his bag, taking it in his hand again when the thick leather strap lays comfortably on his shoulder.

_“Your lecture ends at three. Five hours, James. Did you even notice?”_

“I wanted to get a head start grading these papers,” he says, avoiding the question.

Truth was, of course, he hadn’t noticed, he’d been doing that a lot, lately, losing track of time, working too hard, some might say. But he didn’t want Miranda’s pity, her soft words, the concern she held that was so palpable it hurt. He was fine, he probably just needed to get more sleep.

“I’m headed home now, I’m just going to stop to grab a coffee,” he tries to sound reassuring. Maybe not the wisest idea, but he could already tell that sleep wasn’t going to happen tonight, so why suffer through the misery of trying?

_“Coffee? At this time of night?”_

“Got a lot of papers to grade,” he grunts.

He hears Miranda sigh over the phone. _“Well, okay, but, James, if it ever strikes your fancy to actually talk about your problems, my room is just across the hall,”_ Miranda says, hanging up before he can respond.

James looks down at his phone, now also warning him that its battery is near dead. He huffs a laugh at that. “You and me both,” he mutters, turning the device off and shoving it in his coat pocket.

The campus coffee shop is only a short walk away and James manages to get there just before it closes. The counter seems unmanned when he walks in, but the assumption is quickly dispelled when he hears a quiet thunk and someone muttering obscenities. He walks up, hesitantly, and looks over the counter, finding that the source of the noise is one of his own students, crouched over and holding his head in his hands.

James won’t tell anyone that he has favorite students, usually says that they’re all a pain in his ass, but the boy behind the counter holds a soft spot in his heart. Perhaps it’s that he reminds James of himself when he was young— headstrong, a little too arrogant for his own good, and helplessly in love.

He helps the kid to his feet and makes sure he’s okay. James is convinced by his student’s assurances that he’s fine until he messes up his relatively simple drink order. He mutters an apology and sets the incorrect order aside.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be good. ‘M just a little out of it today. Been working alone,” his student replies, waving away the question and starting the process anew.

Odd, every time James has been in, the boy has been working with another student. He’s pretty sure they’re dating, though it’s not like he ever intended on bringing that up. He knew firsthand what it meant to have your personal life pried at by authority figures. But, with his addled brain, what comes out instead of his intended sympathies is, “What, your boyfriend’s not here tonight?”

The boy pauses, slowly looking up. “Uh, my boyfriend?” he asks, haltingly. 

_Shit_. Too late to take it back now. “The kid who usually works with you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Did I misinterpret what was going on? It’s just, you remind me of, well,” he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. His student doesn’t need to know that.

His student shakes his head and mutters something about the other boy calling in sick. He hands James his drink and he accepts it with an awkward thanks, suppressing a sigh until he exits the coffee shop.  
~  
 _James was 20 when he met the love of his life._

_Thomas had been his self-proclaimed guide to the ins and outs of the bureaucracy he’d been thrown into as a newly promoted officer, a man so kind, so selfless, it was a wonder he’d landed the position he did, a wonder he’d even wanted it._

_Until, of course, you met his father. Then it became crystal clear. Perhaps the reason he tried so hard to be a good man came clear, too._

_At first, James couldn’t be sure he wasn’t just another person blessed by Thomas’ undying kindness, but as time passed and James came into his own and Thomas didn't move on, it became evident that somewhere along the way Thomas had started to see him as a friend._

_And then, well. It’s hard to pinpoint when it happened, but things started to feel different. A part of James that he thought he could escape from had forced its way back into the sunlight._

_He’s still not sure whether it was a good thing._  
~  
Miranda’s already gone to bed by the time James gets back to their shared apartment, so he treads lightly, slipping his bag off his shoulder and onto one of the desks set up in the cramped living room, setting the half-empty coffee cup next to it, and plugging in his computer before heading to the kitchen.

There isn’t much, they’ve probably put off grocery shopping for a couple of weeks longer than they should have, but there are leftovers from a dinner he’d had with the Dean the other night that he takes out of the refrigerator, dumps unceremoniously onto a plate, and throws into the microwave. His gaze chances over the bottle of mid-shelf whiskey they keep next to the sink and he briefly considers getting one of the scotch glasses down from the cupboard and pouring himself a healthy serving, but remembers the now lukewarm coffee he already has and idly thinks that perhaps the night only has room for so many bad decisions. Despite the thought he stares, hands braced on the counter, at the tempting amber of the drink, just enough left for a nightcap, until the whisper of a ghost echoes in his ear and he turns his back resolutely to the bottle, barely in time to stop the microwave before it goes off. The plate is hot enough that James almost drops it as he takes it out so he sets it down and grabs one of the tea towels hanging from the oven door handle to carry the plate over to the desk with, grabbing a fork from the drawer as he goes.

When he settles at his desk, instead of pulling out the stack of student essays he’d promised would be returned within the week, he gets the heavy, cream-colored paper from his lower desk drawer along with a slim black and gold fountain pen, and starts to write.


	3. 6.April.2017

My Love,  
One of those days again. They seem to be coming more frequently, but then again, maybe they’re just blurring together. I think the saddest part is, I really thought I was getting a handle on myself, after it all happened. But the reality has been hitting me more lately, and no amount of distraction will take away the fact that I’ll never see you again. I hate to say that that’s what my life has become, a string of distractions one after the other, but sometimes it feels like it is. Like I’m just going through the motions, pretending to be more than just a shell of a man.  
You’d think it wouldn’t hurt so much still, after all these years. I don’t know. Maybe time doesn’t heal all wounds. Maybe it makes some of them worse, until they’re festering and seeping and the only option left is amputation. It doesn’t help that everywhere I look there seems to be a reminder of you, even 4,000 miles from where we started.  
It’s usually people, I guess. Suppose they’re the same everywhere. No matter what, there’s going to be people as unerringly kind as you. It feels like I don’t deserve that nowadays. I wonder if I’m even the man you loved anymore. I don’t feel like him. I’m so angry, at myself, at the world. It’s all I have now, I either get this numbness or this anger. I wish I could go back to when you were alive. I thought hiding was so hard, but I’d take it any day over never seeing you again.  
It scares me. I’ve started forgetting your smile. Sometimes I see it on other people’s faces and everything freezes. It’s like I go back 20 years and meet you for the first time all over again. No matter how long passes, that’s a day I’ll remember for the rest of my life.  
I remember feeling alone and confused then, and you stepping in and making everything make sense. Everything. I still don’t know how you did it. Does it make me weak that all I want for in this earth is someone who can step in and make everything make sense again? Even as I write that I can hear your voice in my head telling me that it doesn’t make me weak, only human. I suppose I can take comfort in that, in the ghost of a conversation we once had. It’s the little things, I guess, that keep me alive. That keep your memory alive. The worst part of that is how hard it is to lose them.  
I’m sorry this letter has been so depressing. I’ve been in a mood. Maybe next time it will be happier.  
All my love,  
James

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like you can find a playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/16ZzyzwUU3H0YB5VkGqg1F?si=5rqaK3bCRDy1uNhq_Q0pzA)!  
> You can also connect with me on my writing blog, [redking-scripting](https://redking-scripting.tumblr.com)


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